


Las Vegas Trash

by just_a_dram



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eloping, F/M, Groping, Kissing, Las Vegas, Las Vegas Wedding, Margaery Tyrell x Robb Stark, Off-screen Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be a story worth telling, that Sansa fell in love with the best man, a boy she’d known her whole life, at her brother’s wedding, and carried away by the romance of the weekend, they decided to tie the knot themselves, secretly, so as to not to upstage the bride and groom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Las Vegas Trash

Las Vegas is a trashy place to have a wedding. Glitzy and showy and right up Marg’s alley, Sansa has privately thought more than once, while she cheerfully performed her duties as maid of honor, smile fixed firmly in place. One of those duties does not include getting married in a wedding chapel the night of the rehearsal dinner. Particularly not to the best man, her brother’s childhood friend, Jon Snow.

But here she is, proposing to him in the hallway where the wedding party has a block of rooms with his thigh between her legs.

“You’re drunk,” he says, nosing at her ear.

“I had one glass of wine.” A maid of honor isn’t supposed to get sloshed. She is tasked with staying alert, so she can handle whatever unpleasantness might pop up and dispense with it before it has a chance to come to the bride’s attention.

There is no one to clean up the mess the maid of honor is creating with her hand wrapped around Jon’s belt buckle, giving it a tug with every statement she makes.

“I’m not drunk.” Far from incapacitated: she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s had her eye on Jon since she broke up with Harry. Before maybe, and considering Harry’s penchant to cheat, the fact that she noticed Jon isn’t something she feels terribly guilty about.

Jon’s come into his own of late. Seems more confident and sure of himself. It’s a sexy look on him. Sansa runs her hand down his lapel. Marg must have picked out this suit as part of her plan to make every last person in the bridal party into the best version of themselves for her special day, because he looks damn sexy in this too.

“We should go get married at that cute little place we walked by earlier and then go back to your room.” This time she doesn’t so much as tug as give a slow pull on his buckle and she can feel the prong begin to give.

“We don’t have to get married to do that,” he says with that tempting half-smile he was giving Arya at the rehearsal dinner table, while Sansa sat across from them, wishing they’d stop whispering.

Arya’s relationship with Jon never bothered her before. It was nothing to envy, anymore than she envied his friendship with Robb. Tonight it had her squirming in her seat, wishing he would look her way, say something low and sarcastic in her ear, something other than direct all his attention to her little sister.

It is bad enough that Marg is getting married first, when it was Sansa who had been in a relationship for three years and a whole wasted wedding planned before she walked in on Harry with a busty bottle blonde, who Jeyne says looked very obviously pregnant last week at Target. Sansa doesn’t need her little sister to fall in love at her brother and her best friend’s wedding on top of everything else. That is not the kind of romance Sansa dreams of being a party to.

“That’s the wrong thing to say,” she says, poking him in the stomach.

He winces and grabs her wrist. “Is it?”

“It’s not romantic.”

“I’m not very good at the romance thing, San.”

No one calls her that except her brothers. She’s fairly certain Jon hasn’t ever called her by that family nickname. At least not out loud. It’s jarring to hear it while someone presses his hand into the small of her back, rocking her up higher on his thigh.

Jon probably isn’t very good about buying flowers unexpectedly or making reservations for two at fancy restaurants, but Sansa suspects he has hidden depths. She’s been crafting this theory about him over the past few months. Based on careful observation, she is almost certain it is at least pretty close to the mark.

At least now she knows he’s a very good kisser. So much so that while she started out at the club with the intention of seducing him on the dance floor, she immediately began to feel like she was the one being seduced, when they slipped outside in the dry, hot night, and his lips seared a path down her neck until she needed assistance standing.

She arches into him, hitching her left leg as high as he seems to want it, and he bites his full, thoroughly kissed looking lower lip. “I’d make a very good wife, Jon.”

His hand spans her neck, his thumb drawing down towards the dip in her dress, where her breasts are pushed up and together. Braced against the hallway’s dark plum wall, Jon leans into her and kisses her, the ghost of a kiss that isn’t nearly enough. “You lose a bet or something, San?”

She rolls her eyes at him and changes tactics with a sigh. “I’d make you dinner every night,” she says, as she runs her hand over the front of him, promising him a different sort of benefit of the conjugal condition. “And bake you a chocolate cake on your birthday. Your favorite.”

Feeling him hard under the heel of her hand makes her heart speed. Going back to Jon’s room would be nice, but she’s looking for something more than that. It would be a story worth telling, that she fell in love with the best man, a boy she’d known her whole life, at her brother’s wedding and carried away by the romance of the weekend, they decided to tie the knot themselves, secretly, so as to not to upstage the bride and groom.

“A cake, huh?” he says, his Adam’s apple rolling above his open collar.

“Your turn,” she prods, cupping him. His eyes slip closed and she pulls her hand away. “What would you do for me?”

She expects something filthy. He’s in a state—they’re both in a state and she’s about two minutes from doing away with this whole ridiculous notion and letting him fuck her silly until it’s time to sneak back to her room—and some filthy promise would be good enough, but what he offers is different. It’s more. What he says to her, his eyes trained on her mouth, shows he’s been listening, paying attention to her personal travails over the past few months as all her plans unraveled and Marg’s took form. “I’d buy you that cottage you wanted.”

She was supposed to buy the ivy covered house on 4th Street with Marg. They’d already picked out room colors and new bed linens and were about to sign, when Robb proposed. Sansa had her heart set on that house, and now she’s back at home, unable to make the rent on the apartment she and Marg shared.

“You could paint the whole thing pink if you wanted.”

“Blue. Ice blue.”


End file.
